Grace
by ElapsedSpiralling
Summary: Joker held out his left, gloveless hand, pinkie extended, "So, I propose we become BFFs."  Unbeta'd, written by a new fan so don't expect a lot of accuracy with the "plot", Dark Knight-ish characterisation . Slash B/J. COMPLETE. Rated M for themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Grace**

Knock, knock, knock. He adjusted his tie, cleared his throat. To smile or not? He gave both a try and settled on smiling.

The door opened to reveal a straight backed, almost military cut butler.

"Hello," he said, still smiling, "I would like to speak to the proprietor."

The butler caught his eye, realisation dawning as quickly as a lightning bolt flashing over his features and the door was slammed shut in his face. Luckily, he had the forethought to stick out his foot and the door was prevented from closing fully. He scowled momentarily at the bone bruise he'd undoubtedly earned himself.

"You know I would've thought British butlers'd have a little more decorum," he said, pulling his foot roughly back with enough force to rip the door from the butler's hand and throwing it wide to reveal the obvious, expected, _opulent_ entrance, "Does this mean all the movies have been lying to me?"

"I'll call the police."

He tilted his head like a dog that's heard a puzzling, high pitched noise.

"I'm not sure how that will help considering I haven't _done_ anything," aside from pull a muscle in his calf, wrenching the door open like that, "Plus I think I scare 'em or something. You don't wanna be responsible for giving the GPD the jitters do you? Or is that something else real British butlers like too? Hm?"

The butler merely stared him down and, he imagined, were he any other man, it might have been frightening. He carried on smiling.

"You know who I would have expected you to threaten to sic on me?" he said, leisurely, swinging on the door handle a little. The wood, so heavy and equally opulent in its own way, gave no indication of straining under his weight.

The butler looked tempted to turn away from him.

"Come on, this is no fun if it's not a dialogue Jeeves."

"Who?"

"There we go; that's more like it. I, I would like you to call upon the Batman," he still relished the word and he smiled even wider when the butler made that concentrated effort to look nonplussed, "C'mon. I might be mad," might, he wasn't really sure himself, "But I'm not stupid. Get him."

"Very well, sir," the butler ground out. He watched as the man strode off through some room or other – living room, saloon, dining room, reception room, who knew in a house so large – calling as he went "Master Wayne? A visitor for you."

The butler made it sound like he was a bag of shit on fire on the porch.

The conversation between the butler and young master was brief and when Bruce emerged it was with a puzzled expression on his face. Half Batman, half billionaire playboy, perhaps. Whatever its origin, the expression gave his face a youthful, innocent sort of confusion.

"Can I help you?"

He waved his hand dismissively at the man's whole existence – from the well-tailored chinos to the natty little Ralph Lauren sweater.

"We don't need to do this, Bats. I know," he said and, seeing that he wouldn't be stopped, finally stepped across the threshold like a vampire given the go-ahead to enter.

"And who are you?" Bruce said, although the warped, fractional, smirk on his face told a different story.

"Hey, I might have washed my face but I'm sure the scars didn't come off," he made a scene of patting his face, just in case, checking.

"What have you done?"

"I like this voice better," he said, taking a moment to spin around in the hall and consider the ridiculously high ceiling – high enough to hang a whole string of people from the rafters without their tip toes even stroking against the heads of the oblivious people beneath, "The other one kind of sounds like you're smoking a pack a day – that can't be good for your little kiddy fans. Sends out the wrong message, know what I mean?"

"What the hell have you done?"

He allowed himself a pinched expression as he turned back to face Bruce and the butler.

"Why do you have to assume I've done something?"

"Because that's all you do."

"I'm insulted you think I'm that predictable," he said morosely, "Hell even I don't know what I'm going to do when I get up in the morning."

"Then why are you here?" Bruce asked, clearly weary of him already.

"No, no," he made a show of walking back towards the door, "If you're going to be so _cold_, sweet pea, I'm going."

"Give it up Joker."

Joker turned and smirked.

"Give up _what_, just so we're clear?"

"Is he always this disgusting?" he heard the butler mutter. He just smiled.

"You want my attention, fine. You have it but only for a moment. If you don't tell me what you're doing right now, I'll drive you back to Arkham."

"Look, I just told your butler that I've done _nothing_."

"Unlikely. There's always something. I doubt the doctors would ask questions if I drove you home," Bruce gritted out.

"Okay, fine," Joker sighed, a little reluctant to give up his theatrics but sensing, as he so easily did these days, just how close he was to being kicked outside, lifted by the throat, deposited in the Tumbler then flung back into his Arkham cell, "You need to mark the 20th of July in your calendar."

"Why? What are you planning?"

"Oh, it's not me though," he hissed, walking right up to the other man. Because that's what he was, dressed like this. He wasn't that curiously obnoxious wall of morals and integrity when he was dressed in his slave-labour-produced, supple leather shoes. Somehow, it was a little more personal though less thrilling than the latex (everyone has their kinks).

"No?"

"No. It's everyone else," he smiled wider, "Y'see, the – oh let's call 'em like we see 'em – the _baddies_ around here are tired of you. You're a party pooper, cutie. So, they've decided it would be better to concentrate their efforts, to form a little allegiance and take you down together. Mobs, weird mutant-y types, psychos like Crane. They're all tired of you. They're handing Batman his eviction notice, basically. You need to be out by the 20th."

"Or?"

"Or," Joker waggled his head in thought momentarily, "Orrr, you can try and kill them all. Or you can die. Actually, that's pretty much one option: you can die. Go or die."

"No."

"No… to living _and _dying?"

"No, I'm not leaving."

"Then that's why I'm here," Joker shrugged coolly, "I'm a big fan of yours, as you know," Bruce's microscopically bewildered expression said he didn't know, "But I can tell you now: alone, you're fucked. And by alone I am including that riff-raff rabble of do-gooder cops you pal around with. If you're gonna weather this storm you've got to have more in your corner."

"I need no one."

"Aw, come on, you hurt Jeeves when you say that. And Gordy. You need all the friends you can get," Joker held out his left, gloveless hand, pinkie extended, "So, I propose we become BFFs."

It was practical _edible_, the tension in Bruce, how close he was to letting Batman take centre stage and throw Joker through a window (it might have been more exciting, Joker felt). Instead, the man's jaw worked imperceptibly as he focused on glaring into Joker's eyes, ignoring the hand entirely.

"No? Are you still BFFs with Harvey? Is that it? I think Harvey's BFFs with his other personality these day-" Joker earned himself a punch there. Hardly surprised he giggled off the sting as he stood back up to his full height and smirked expectantly at Bruce, "Okay, too soon."

"Shut up."

"Bruce- _Batman_," he implored, "I'm your biggest fan. You need me."

Bruce turned away with a shake of his head.

"All I have to prove that there _is_ a plan is your word. Your word is worth less than dirt."

"Well, it's like a surprise party Brucey," Joker said, "You don't go tellin' everybody. But it's not just my word."

Instantly, Bruce had turned back to face him, expression darker than ever.

"No?"

"What? You haven't seen it? Seriously?" Joker asked, curiously. When Bruce continued to merely glare him down, one hand still curled into a ready fist at his side, he turned to Alfred, "Isn't it your job to look after this place?"

"What _are_ you referring to?" Alfred hissed.

Actions spoke so much louder than words sometimes. Giant black question marks scrawled on cavernous ceilings spoke even louder than actions. Gesturing with one finger, Joker let the one in the hallway do the talking for him.

He came up alongside Bruce as the man and his butler stared upward in disbelief at the mark. Hell, he knew it had really had an impact when Bruce allowed him to loop a friendly arm about his shoulders and use the man as a crutch as he too cast his gaze towards the punctuation.

"Michelangelo really ran out of ideas there, huh?" he murmured, practically directly into the shell of Bruce's ear.

Bruce swivelled his head, gaze steely, to meet Joker's own. Joker gave a little wink.

"I take it that we've got a deal."

"Until I find out that you're implicated."

"Master Bruce-"

"No, no "Master Bruce"," Joker glared at Alfred, "We have a deal. BFFs. Three's a crowd Jeeves," he turned his attention back to Bruce to smile, "So, which room's mine?"

"None of them," Bruce hissed, finally pulling away from the other man who made a show of stumbling without the support.

"Really? You two guys must rattle around in a place this size. Do you have playboy bunnies clogging up all the other rooms or something?"

"You're not staying here?"

"So you're gonna send your one ally out to live among the enemy?" Joker said dubiously, "If you don't mind my saying, Brucey, it shows that you've been conducting a one man operation up 'til now."

"You're not staying here."

"Then I die," Joker emphasised each word coolly. He allowed himself a small smile, "And I think we all know what having my death on your conscience would do to you."

Bruce's face practically went into an emotional lockdown at the words.

"They're all empty," the man said, passionlessly, "Pick one," he shot a quick look at Alfred when the man stared, outraged at him.

Joker beamed. He stopped in front of Alfred to tap out several points with one index finger on the palm of his other hand, "I like to draw my own bath, I'm a late riser and I enjoy just a dash of honey in my morning tea."

"You'll enjoy your morning tea in your lap in you're not careful-"

"Jack. Jack Napier," Joker was pleased to see that the confession of his name – of no real importance or value to himself but apparently viewed as a serious revelation to Bruce – made the billionaire practically gawp, albeit for the briefest of moments.

"Mr Napier," Alfred smiled thinly.

"I'm glad we understand each other," Jack smiled pleasantly before stopping in front of Bruce, "You know which room I'm gonna pick Bruce?"

Bruce, resigned, merely raised his eyebrows.

Jack was sure to lean right up against Bruce as he whispered his answer.

"The one right next to yours."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**Note: **This is very, very loosely a continuation of Dark Knight events but I stray a lot as I've only seen the movie once and that was back in 2008. Bats and Joker are my own interpretation too, a blend of various interpretations but visually looking like Bale and Ledger. I also take major liberties with other villains, so apologies if you're a fan of accuracy.

XXXXX

"You know," Jack paused in laboriously licking his fingers clean of powder sugar, "There's a rumour going around that you have a cool underground hide out. Like, like a bat cave."

"I'm not saying anything."

"That's actually what you call it, isn't it Bruce? Prefixing "bat" to everything isn't as cool as you think. When do I get to see it?" he asked, picking up another doughnut and making short, revolting work of the thing, cramming it in his mouth yet still managing to spray out words around it, "I want the guided tour. With the, with the headphones and the little MP3 player."

Bruce called upon all of his training in meditation and self-discipline not to simply snap – either his own mind or some bone of Jo-or rather _Jack_'s.

"I've not agreed that such a place exists."

"Oh, because," Jack swallowed the doughnut remains, "Oh because you just park that tank thing you have in a garage?"

It was difficult, trying to remind himself what was so unpleasant about sending Jack back out to his death when the man was stretched out on silk sheets, shoes off, socks off, spraying crumbs and sugar far and wide as he worked his way through a box of Dunkin'.

"If you're struggling to feed yourself, I could help," Bruce said, without much hope. Jack rewarded him with a laugh. Without the make-up it made the hairs on Bruce's neck stand on end.

"Sure, I blow up churches because I'm starving," Jack snorted around doughnut three, "Look, I can get whatever I want, whenever I want. I can have you, if I want you."

"To eat?"

Jack smirked at the possibility.

"Maybe. You're probably too tough, chewy. Don't get all charitable Bruce Wayne on me, Bats."

"Then what's the plan? Who left the question mark?"

Making a point of wiping his hands on the silk sheets (like Bruce cared about beds when he rarely saw more than three or four fitful hours' sleep in them, leading the life he did), Jack patted the space beside him on the king-size. Bruce purposefully sat against the foot of the bed instead. He was rewarded with a pair of long toed feet in his lap, one sporting a curiously fresh new bruise.

"Riddler."

"I haven't heard of him."

"Yeah, he's new, I've seen him around the Narrows," Jack muttered, waggling his feet, "My considered opinion is that he's a tool. But he's friends with Crane, which is more of a problem."

"And this is all their doing?"

"No-" Jack huffed out his breath, toying with a forth doughnut as he spoke, "Have you been listening at all? I said _everyone_ is in on it. You really don't get how much of an impact you've had around here. You practically belly flopped into the pool."

In all honesty, Bruce didn't like to consider. It was simply a duty he had. It wasn't his place to pat himself on the back thinking about any impact he had had, it was just for him to keep watch each night.

"I mean, Gotham's basically crime _mecca_ now," Jack laughed with genuine merriment, tearing a ring doughnut in two with a sudden snap of his wrists, "It's _way_ more interesting nowadays. Don't be jealous though: noone's as interesting as you."

"What do you mean, a crime mecca?"

"Oh come on, have you not noticed the kind of crazies this place has these days? Egos like skyscrapers, _costumes_. They see you as a challenge. Like," he considered, "Like one of those Test Your Strength booths. If you can rile the Batman, you've made it."

The feet were pulled off Bruce's lap and soon Jack had scrabbled up to crouch beside him.

"In case you hadn't noticed, my accent isn't exactly from around these parts."

"You came here for me?"

"Oh, honey pie," Jack rumbled, "I'd follow you to hell if I had to."

"Stop it," Bruce demanded, "I'll take you back to Arkham."

"And you'll die," the other sighed, "When are you going to get this, Bat Brain?"

"So what do we do? I know you don't plan," the billionaire said icily, "How are you supposed to help?"

"When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Consider me your Roman," Jack made it sound so simple, "I can find out what people are planning, tell you what they're like. Be your intel, like that Fox guy-" seamlessly Jack added, "Bruce, you've just got to stop under-estimating me."

"Clearly."

It earned Bruce an elbow in the ribs that was practically convivial.

"Plus I have no qualms about shooting people," Jack noted, sliding his legs out full length so that he had joined Bruce against the foot of the bed, "Might make your work simpler."

"No one dies," Bruce insisted.

"Oh, because your car flipping antics just leave people with funny tummies, huh? Wake up Brucey," he pulled a face and muttered, "I'll aim for appendages."

"I'll imprison you in the Manor if that's what it'll take to get this work done with your help."

"No," Jack insisted, reaching out blindly to grab Bruce's fore-arm. Bruce resisted throwing the other man off when he realised the man's intention was merely to squeeze it for emphasis, "It'll only work if I'm with you while you're being your magnetic self, drawing all the scum out into the open."

"So you're suggesting-"

"That I go on patrol with you or whatever it is you do on those roofs: spy on people undressing, I dunno," Jack snickered, "I could have a little outfit too."

"You'd need a balaclava," Bruce muttered. He could, he realised, always ditch the other man at the first sign of trouble. A man with nothing but a custom suit and a switch blade to his name was unlikely to fare well in a rooftop chase after Batman's retreating back, after all, "The others would recognise you, even if you didn't have the make-up."

"Fine."

"And you won't be able to talk, either. That would give it away."

"Oh," Jack drawled, "I can tell you're enjoying that prospect. Shall we set a time for our date?"

"Why?"

"Because," Jack finally let go of his arm (he'd be holding it the whole time? Bruce only now considered), "Any more of this domesticity and I'm gonna spew."

"You sure it wasn't the doughnuts?"

Jack smiled appreciatively.

"Let's say it's fifty-fifty."

"Meet me outside the front door, eleven o'clock. Wear something black."

Jack's retreating figure nodded, "Fine. I wouldn't want to clash with your outfit anyway."

Bruce's gaze drifted back to the crumbs and the crumpled Dunkin' box. He came back to his senses only when he became aware of Alfred's quiet presence in the bedroom doorway.

"You don't think it's wise."

"Respectfully," Alfred said, walking with his head bowed as he approached the billionaire's side, ""Unwise" doesn't really touch on it. The man is quite clearly a psychopath and he is most certainly a murderer. I don't think I need to remind you that he murdered Rachel."

"You will never have to," Bruce said firmly, rising from the bed with a quiet sigh, "I have to protect the city. Just knowing where Joker is will have some small benefit. If he means what he says in leading me to the rest of them, all the better."

"And you don't worry about casting your lot with him? You think it better than working alone?"

"Gotham doesn't trust the Dark Knight," Bruce said quietly, watching as Alfred carefully straightened the sheets, smoothing away the wrinkles and brushing aside the crumbs, "If I want to protect them, I need to try everything possible."

"Perhaps that's where we disagree, Master Wayne," Alfred said, looking the man in the eye. Bruce set his lips in a thin line at the sadness in Alfred's face, "Perhaps there are levels to which even the most well-meaning should not stoop."

"I don't know Alfred. I'm certain that this is all I can do, and I have to do something, I just," Bruce shook his head as he found his voice grow more wavering, "I'm sorry."

"You need never apologise to me, Master Wayne," the butler gave him a slightly pained smile before walking back to the door, "but Master Wayne?"

"Yes Alfred?"

"You must know this: you cannot help that man. You cannot rescue him," Alfred said, with a quiet conviction, "You cannot save a man who does not want to be saved."

"Thank you Alfred. That will be all."

XXXXX

"Boo!"

The Batman turned to consider the figure at his shoulder: a ratty balaclava hid the man's even rattier hair; the fine quality suit was swapped for worn, cheap black jeans and a pullover. A smile leered out from the eye holes and the slit for the mouth, both floating in the darkness. There was still something of Joker about the man, the Batman felt with displeasure: perhaps it was in the man's gait, something about the spring-loaded quality of his arms and shoulders.

"I heard your approach," the Batman noted simply before opening the doors of the Tumbler and gesturing the Joker in silently.

"I'd sure hope so with ears like those," Joker said, leaning back in the passenger seat with something approaching a purr, "Now this is nice. Tell me, is this the basic model or were the bucket seats extra?"

The Batman set the Tumbler into roaring action, eyes narrowed and set upon the road ahead. Already feeling his face begin to sweat, Joker rolled up the balaclava, allowing it to nestle on the top of his head like a beanie whilst inside the vehicle.

"Ah, I get it. You're in character now."

"I'm just ignoring you," the Batman rumbled, slipping the vehicle into stealth mode as he approached the bridge.

"Now that's just hurtful."

"If you act like this in the city I will cut you lose."

"I know, I _know,_" Joker rolled his eyes, "Can't take a joke can you?"

"New rule," the Batman growled out, "No talking in the Tumbler."

XXXXX

"Where is Riddler? What does he look like?"

The black clad Joker remained stock still and silent. When an assailant sprang from the mouth of an alleyway, he continued in silence aside from the crack of his knee colliding with the man's skull as he grabbed the assailant's head and slammed it down on the joint. He neatly side stepped the body.

"You have permission to speak," the Batman hissed.

"See, look at you, breaking one of your own rules," Joker muttered through the balaclava, lips threatening to but not quite smiling, "You won't _see_ Riddler. Probably not, not yet. You see his little clues, his stupid punctuation and grammar all over the city. He's too prissy to actually get some blood on his hands. His men are the ones who look like elves, all dressed up in green."

"I've seen them. I assumed they worked for you."

"Well I'm flattered but I don't tend to permanently hire, y'know? I'm more Rent-a-Goon," Joker muttered, watching with something bordering on admiration as Batman did that effortless "knock out a stealthy assailant approaching from behind with a well-timed raised fist" move.

"We're getting close. The last three men were Riddler's."

"Because we're going the right way, those four question marks form coordinates-"

"To this place," the Batman cut across, drawing to a stop to consider the innocuous looking factory building in front of them. He scanned the building using the cowl, "It's rigged. The floor has the capacity to become electrified."

He was forced to grab Joker's arm as the man continued forward, heading for the open factory door.

"Are you even listening?"

"Sure I am but if we don't humour Riddler and pretend like we're kow-towing to his genius, he'll never show his face. Trust me."

"I wonder if I should."

"Fine," Joker gave a large, exaggerated shrug, "Then don't mind when you read that ten people died in the paper tomorrow because they couldn't say which came first, the chicken or the egg. Bats, don't you realise what this is? Like, in criminal language? Criminal-ese?"

"Tell me or shut up," the Batman snarled.

"This," Joker strode over to the door and gave it a hearty slap on its rusting iron, sending the door ringing like an aging bell, "This is practically a welcome mat. You don't just turn down invitations like this without ramifications."

Without a word, the Batman strode past him and into the factory and its waiting gloom. Without the cowl, he would have been unable to make out anything in the feeble slithers of light that managed to creep inside through holes in the pitted and rusted corrugated metal walls. The cowl lit upon a table at the room's centre, however, and the simple, box shaped electronic device there.

They had crossed paths with Riddler and his men enough times by now that it came as little surprise when their entrance triggered a booming, bombastic voice recording to play overhead. Yes, the floors were electrified, they were pleasantly informed. Yes, all the clues thus far had been absurdly simple. And yes, Riddler had recorded this particular sound bite weeks ago, he had been waiting so long for the Batman to arrive.

A genuine chill passed over the Batman when Riddler finally announced the clue itself. Apparently inspired by the red and green of the two wires that protruded from either side of the box and snaked the room's length, Riddler asked "What colour is christmas?"

"What?"

Joker repeated the question, just loud enough to be heard over Riddler's 20 second countdown.

"I heard!" the Batman snapped, "But it's not even a riddle!"

"Oh, yeah," Joker replied, calmly, almost boredly, "I forgot: when Riddler gets pissed he just makes these so called riddles up. He doesn't _want_ you to win. He just wants to be right."

The Batman scarcely heard Joker's words as took to scanning the room and the wires hurriedly for any sign of the construction of the contraption.

"_Nine_."

"It's the green one," Joker said coolly by his side, reaching out to grab the wire. The Batman slammed his own hand down on top of the man's.

"How can you know? The riddle is impossible."

"Which of us two enjoys pyrotechnics, hm? And bombs, and dynamite?"

"I can't trust you."

"Then this is the end," Joker whispered, pressing his side right up against the Batman's, "I would have preferred we killed each other but I guess this works too. Shame it's over a little shit like Riddler."

"_Five_."

"Shut up. Let me think," the Batman hissed.

"It's the green one. Who's shared airplane food dinners with Edward in Arkham canteen, huh?"

"SHUT UP!"

"It kills you to trust me, doesn't it?" Joker smiled.

"_Two_."

"SHUT-"

In the flurry of movement, Joker had fully expected a punch (a punch _and _electrocution, tough break) but was surprised instead to find the Batman clutching onto the green wire like he had just throttled a snake into submission. The box fizzled, spluttered. The pair tensed momentarily but then assurance came in the way of a clearly not pre-recorded groan from somewhere up on a balcony overhead.

"You stay here," the Batman hissed at his companion before tearing towards the room's staircase. Joker spun about to offer Edward's remaining, relatively stealthy mob a wide, wide smile.

"Hello kiddies."

"Oh fuck," one muttered as the voice clearly registered.

""Oh fuck" indeed," he said. He used a gunshot to the cranium as punctuation.

XXXXX

Riddler, it transpired, was a small blond man who wriggled and writhed like an anguished ferret as the Batman pinned him to a wall, knocking the man's forest green bowler hat to the floor in the process.

"But you weren't meant to-" the man wheezed out. The Batman shoved him that little bit harder against the wall, turning the rest of Riddler's sentence into a whine.

"Who are you working with? Who are you working _for?"_

"I can't say!"

"WHO?"

"Because he'll kill me!" Riddler sobbed, his faced ugly and contorted with fear, "I just-I just-"

"WHAT? TALK."

"I just have to be right! Father, just let me be right, don't call me stupid, you're stupid you're stu-"

The Batman felt his resolve snap. He slammed the man's head against the wall of the Foreman's office he had been cowering in and let him drop to the floor, unconscious. Tapping into his cowl's mobile communications system he left a message for Gordon that there was a patient who needed returning to Arkham as soon as possible, for his own safety and for the public's.

The Batman made his way back down into the factory to find, the cowl informed him, one lone heartbeat, erratic and thudding like a machine gun. The five remaining bodies in the room, it transpired, were corpses.

"You promised," The Batman hissed as he took the shortcut from the balcony of simply jumping down onto the workshop floor below.

"They tried to touch my special place?" Joker smiled sweetly, pocketing his gun again and making a show of accidentally treading on one corpse's chest as he came back to The Batman's side, "One down, a billion other bad guys to go, right?"

"You swore."

"It's like asking a smoker to just quit cold turkey," Joker said, all smiles, the darkness emphasising the scars and the folds of his dimples, "You can't be surprised if they have a couple of set-backs. Hey, where are you going?"

"Go back to the Manor. I'm not working with you tonight now."

"Oh, boohoo Batman," Joker muttered as he saw the figure glide up and out of sight, having grappled up onto a building he assumed.

"Boo fucking hoo," he muttered again to himself. He gave the pockets of the mobsters a quick pilfer, taking some guns and a couple of cartridges, before heading back out into the night himself.

It was only a matter of seconds before Joker realised he was being followed. The revelation had hardly required bat ears though: his shadow had made no effort to be especially stealthy. The polite cough, too, was scarcely ninja-like.

He turned to shoot a thin smile at one of the cast of the Wizard of Oz.

"Hello Joker."

"Hello Friend-of-Dorothy's."

The burlap sack gave a bark of a laugh.

"That's somewhat ironic coming from _you_, clown."

"Look," Joker rolled his eyes, "If you're gonna do it, just get on and spray your stupid skunk stuf-"

The man obliged.

XXXXX

The Batman heard the sounds from the roof of a bank controlled by the mob. What made them haunting was they were not the typical screams of the terrified, nor the desperate shouts for help that he was attuned to on his nightly patrols.

Rather, they were animalistic. They were outright howls, desperate and despairing. They could only come from one man. Teeth gritted, the Batman dropped down into the street in question. To his surprise, his presence sent Joker's horror spiralling still higher. The man, devoid of his balaclava and freely sweating on his forehead and cheeks, stared wide eyed and teary at the Batman.

"No, nonono," the man whined.

The Joker was afraid of him? The Batman shoved down his own shock to grab hold of the other man and, using his free arm to shoot the grapple gun made slow, tiring progress towards the hidden Tumbler. His arm ached from the effort not only to hold onto the Joker but to battle against the man's desperate bucking.

"No, don't be, don't be-"

With some difficulty the Batman forced Joker into the vehicle, the man refusing to simply sit, legs kicking out against the door. He scrabbled at the inside of the door when the Batman eventually slammed it shut and groaned all the louder when the Batman reappeared at his side, sat in the driver's seat. The Batman searched through his "glove compartment" for the remaining serum Fox had produced.

"No, Bruce, don't be-"

The Batman paused in uncorking the solution to openly frown at the other man and his writhing features, the scars of his mouth even more warped and ugly as his mouth contorted with sobs. He felt himself turn cold as he realised why he had paused in his bid to administer the antidote: curiosity. And, even more perversely, a hot, burning feeling that Joker's actions of the night had somehow earned him this little bit of suffering.

He was shocked to his senses when Joker lunged across at him to grab at the Kevlar, fingers tearing at his shoulders, trying to get some kind of purchase as he searched the Batman's face with wild eyes.

"Only me."

"What?" The Batman whispered, hand poised with the needle of antidote. Still he lingered, "Only you what?"

"Only I get to kill you. You're not _allowed_ to die, I _refuse_ it," Joker snarled before descending into even more pitiful, animal like howls as he began to twitch and shake with the effects of the gas – clearly a concentrated dose.

The Batman grabbed Joker's arm and stabbed it with the needle, thrusting down the plunger before Joker could say more. The man's eyes fluttered shut, the hideous sounds stopped and the Batman was left to drive back to the Manor in silence, hands shaking upon the Tumbler's controls.

XXXXX

"Urgh."

Bruce looked up from his book – a large volume on pyrotechnics – to study the sorry looking figure slumped against the doorframe.

"Crane, I take it?" Jack asked. Bruce felt a curious flutter in his throat as he saw how genuinely weak the other man looked, dragging himself into the room on trembling, foal-like legs to sit at the end of Bruce's bed.

"Yes. Concentrated dose. I had the antidote in the Tumbler so you weren't drugged for too long," Bruce said. He placed his book down and caught Jack's heavy lidded gaze.

"What?" Jack murmured, rubbing at his temple with an out-and-out frown of pain. It alarmed Bruce in a way he couldn't have expected. The alarm, he knew, came from a simple revelation: Joker was human. They fought and they kicked and they punched and they strangled each other and the man had, it seemed, dragged himself home each night to nurse his wounds. To feel pain. To have headaches. It was all a little too real for Bruce's liking.

"You killed five men last night."

"Do goons count as people? I didn't think they had the right to vote yet?"

"Don't joke about it. You murdered sons, brothers, f-"

"Oh don't start with that shit," Jack said, giving into to the apparent temptation to close his weary eyes, "I'm a terrible man. We know this."

"You don't _have _to be."

A small smile crossed Jack's features.

"I do. It's too late," he paused for a moment before adding, in a bare whisper, "I'm sorry."

"I won't let you stray next time."

One eye slit open curiously.

"There'll be a next time?"

Reluctantly, Bruce nodded back.

"You did save me. You were right about the wire."

"Hm. I like the choice of book, by the way," Jack drawled sleepily, "Pyrotechnics: don't want to have to rely on me again, eh?"

"Not if I can help it, no."

With obvious effort Jack forced himself up from the bed. Rummaging in his pockets the man pulled out his familiar purple gloves, crumpled, and carefully slipped them onto his hands.

"That seriously was a bad trip," the man muttered as he headed back towards the door with a little salute to Bruce, "And I've huffed a few things in my time, lemme tell you."

"You're not getting any rest?"

"Me? Nah, I'm an insomniac, how do you think I got such bad dark circles, huh? I'll cat nap in the Batmobile-"

"It's called the Tumbler."

"I like Batmobile. Put in an order for cinnamon toast tomorrow morning? If I ask Jeeves will shove it somewhere unpleasant," Jack gave Bruce a little wink as he gave his purple gloves one final adjustment before heading out the door, his steps laboured and difficult to watch, "Later toots."

Tired though he was, Bruce lay staring at the ceiling. His thoughts flung him between two poles: an incessant replay of the night's events and the sour tasting tension that came from waiting for a call from Gordon to warn him about Joker's latest chaotic mess. Or, Bruce allowed himself to consider, considering Jack's current state, perhaps the police officer at the door informing him of the man's death was more likely.

Bruce focused his attentions back to his bedtime reading to avoid considering which possibility upset him more.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Note: **Just another quick FYI: this fic will be fairly fragmented and not overly plotted, if that's not already obvious. It's hard for me to do otherwise, knowing as little of Batman as I do. I hope that doesn't detract. Hope you enjoy!

If Jack hadn't given any thought to the five goons he had shot at the time of their deaths he sure as hell did now. The result of his actions had been Bruce not only concocting plans (and how Jack loved those) but devising _checkpoints_ and _timescales_. When the cowl went on, these instructions were barked out with all the warmth and affection of an army drill sergeant.

Knowing what he did now, Jack would have at least peeled the goons like so many apples to make it a fair trade.

"Listen."

Bruce didn't exactly shout the word but the slam of his fist on the table between them jolted Jack back to his senses.

"I am. Maybe you should record yourself sometime, see how you come across when you lecture, it might help you to vary your delivery-"

"If you kid, you die."

"I know enough about Croc to know what to expect," Jack yawned. He picked up the blurry photograph Bruce had managed to obtain of the elusive man, "As big as a house, skin complaint, habit of eating people in sewers. Tells some really dirty stories. Pretty good ones."

"He was in Arkham?" Bruce guessed.

"Not exactly; more like he visited," Jack explained, "I hate to give away trade secrets," he emphasised the point by pausing with apparent reluctance before conceding "Croc was handy for contraband, y'know, going through the sewers and all."

"And no one at Arkham knew that was how people were getting contraband into the asylum?"

"Sure they did," Jack sighed, throwing the photo back onto his "information pack" of bull-shit about Croc that did nothing to bring out the man's personality. Like how he had a particularly pneumatic way of snapping his jaws down on bone marrow or how all his sharpened teeth glinted in a pally kind of way when Jack told a good gag, "But there's only so many times security are going to go and check the sewer pipes when their friends don't come back after that particular assignment."

Bruce, his expression darkening, seemed decided at that particular comment.

"We'll do it tonight."

"I still don't get why we can't just do this wholesale. Poison Ivy on a Tuesday, Clayface on a Thursday, I'm losing beauty sleep with this kind of routine."

Bruce looked up from shuffling his own papers into a neat pile to send Jack a quizzical look.

"Wholesale? As in draw everyone to us? All of them together?"

"Sure."

"How, exactly?"

Jack shrugged, gnawing on the pad of one thumb, "Do something-"

"Terrible?" Bruce supplied.

Jack's gnawing turned to a small, sloping smile.

"Spectacular."

"We stick to the plan," Bruce dismissed, sliding the folder back into drawer of his desk, "And we do it tonight. I need to go ready the Tumbler. You stay here," the man commanded, although that was hardly necessary considering the reinforced door that had magically appeared on Bruce's expansive bedroom overnight the week before, "I'll come get you when it's time."

"I'll be counting the minutes honey pie."

Jack walked Bruce to the doorway and watched Bruce lock him in like a poorly behaved dog. He tilted his head with the closing of the heavy door, tracking Bruce's gaze for as long as he could. To his credit, the billionaire returned the look with eyes that gave nothing away.

!

"I fucking hate these sewers."

The Batman would have turned to scowl at his companion but their precarious position, edging along the small ledge that lined the sewer tunnel, made the feat all but impossible. He focused attention ahead instead, eyes narrowed against the gloom and ears pricked for any sound from Croc.

Joker must have sensed his disapproval however. The man mumbled an apology, apparently recognising that he had broken "the rules". Still, when the pair reached a slightly wider ledge the man forget himself once more.

"I'm telling you, a giant pile of corpses right next to a manhole would have drawn him out. Just have to make sure they're fresh," the word "fresh" made Joker's expression turn queasier in light of their rotten surroundings. The Batman simply ignored his inane comments.

Upon reacheding a second, wider landing sounds of splashing reached the pair. Jack, instinctively it seemed, reached inside a jacket pocket to retrieve his gun. Lightning fast the Batman pulled the weapon from him, depositing it in an empty holster of his own belt for safe keeping.

"No guns. I warned you."

"And I didn't listen because the guy is eight foot tall," Jack held out his hand, "Gimme the grapple gun. I'm not wading through this crap," a quite literal description, the Batman noted, "He's down that tunnel on the left."

"It's the right. The map I provided you with shows that they link up to a larger tunnel that's currently dry," the Batman held out the grapple gun to Joker, frowning in the expectation that he would turn it on him somehow. The man did no such thing, firing at the ceiling and managing to wrap the claw about a metal girder hanging down in the gloom. With surprising grace the man flew across the gloom then released the gun. Taking a little bow he set off down the tunnel. The Batman opted instead for the right hand tunnel, using his zip line to make faster progress.

By now the smell in the sewers had begun to catch in his throat, clogging his mouth and nose and practically choking him. It wasn't just the expected smells of waste and stagnant water, the Batman appreciated, but the sweet and bitter smell of rotting flesh. When he had reached a sufficiently wide ledge in his current tunnel to pause, the Batman gave into the temptation to simply heave the little food he had eaten that day into the festering waters that slipped by in curiously oil-like puddles and patches.

"Jack."

He was careful in turning on his ledge, careful to whisper so that his words did not echo back off the curved walls that hugged him, bringing the darkness closer. In the gloom he heard nothing bar the trickle of water on the walls and the gush of more waste joining this trunk tunnel from another tunnel branching onto it. There was no chuckle, no purr of agreement, no word spoken.

"Jack. Answer me."

The Batman turned into the next tunnel and went stock still once he had found a suitable foothold. On the far wall of this new pipe there were shadows, _moving_ shadows. The shapes they formed were vague, blurred but they were large and solid, not tricks formed by the patterns of mould on the brick and cement. He edged his way down the tunnel, each step deliberate, timed to coincide with his slow, deep breaths. His fingers gripped tighter still when his cowl picked up the sound of a voice.

"He'll be really tough and chewy. Trust me, I've just got a feeling."

"He'll be of no help to you."

There was the whisper of a laugh in the Batman's ear, one he was becoming all too familiar with.

"Honestly, Croc, has he been of help to anyone in Gotham so far? Hm?"

"He's helped me," Croc rumbled back, each word a crunching, gravelly noise over the cowl's communication system, "If he didn't keep catching degenerates, if the courts didn't keep sending them to Arkham instead of Blackgate, if they didn't keep asking for cigarettes and crowbars, I wouldn't get those security guards."

"What'd they taste like anyway?"

"Oh," there was a moment's consideration, "A little like venison. They spend all their days sitting on their backsides watching security camera monitors, it does wonders for the flesh."

"Now, see, I'm stringy. I'll bet the scars taste rubbery too."

Croc's laugh was so low that the Batman almost felt it rumble through him.

"I think it's time you called out for your Batman, Joker," the monster said, "While you still have a voicebox."

"Fine, there's just no talking to you today-" Joker sighed. The Batman felt a strange thrill run through him when he heard Joker speak softly, as though stood next to his ear. The words were only truly audible through the cowl and the Batman heard no echo of them down at the far end of the tunnel.

"Oh, do save me, Dark Knight. I'm in mortal peril, yadda yadda. Is that what they usually yell?"

He compiled, using the zip line to land in the mouth of the dried up tunnel Croc had made his base. He made no effort to hide. Instead the Batman set his jaw and shoulders. His eyes were dark pits in the black of his mask. Croc, however, seemed to seek them out, trying to appeal to him somehow.

The man (verging on creature) made a show of replacing the knife against Joker's jugular. The man, balaclava gone, simply gave the Batman a blank look. The press of the metal against his flesh seemed either not to register or, almost, to bore him. Perhaps it struck a man who enjoyed explosions and games as rather a mundane end.

"Why kill him?" the Batman asked, his loud and echoing along the length of tunnel until it sounded as though he had brought a legion of shadows with him.

"Because his allegiance has been tested and he's failed us."

"What do you care for allegiance?" the Batman asked, stepping further into the claustrophobic tunnel only for Croc to press the knife threateningly firmer against Joker's neck.

"I might have exotic tastes but that doesn't make me any different from the good old fashioned generation of-"

"Criminals?"

"Everyone needs to make a living," Croc said dismissively, "Joker's young, he's shaken things up too much. And look what he's done now, he's a blackguard," Croc turned Joker enough so that he could look into the man's face with a little grin. His teeth, shark-like, were all on display.

"Bad time to swap sides, Joker."

"You know about the plan," the Batman pressed on. He made sure not to walk closer to the man but he ensured his tone was threat enough.

"Of course," Croc snapped another grin in the Batman's direction, "We all know. And here Joker goes, warning you. Which is why I've made the executive decision to cut our loses and eat him," Croc sighed, "As he said himself, he'll probably be a disgusting dish so there's no joy on my part. The way he's gotten himself sliced up and all the filth he's imbibed over the years."

"Look, eat me if you want," Joker grumbled, "But just do it, would ya? I draw the line at having my lifestyle choices criticised by a cannibal."

The Batman did his best not to smirk his approval at the sentiment.

"If you don't release him you'll be sent to Arkham," the Batman insisted, "And you won't just be roaming the sewers this time."

The comment earned Joker a slice to his cheek. The man flinched but made sure to laugh afterwards. To the Batman, however, it was obvious that the laugh was calculated and the flow of blood from the diagonal gash was considerable, sliding freely over Joker's pale skin.

"No more threats, maybe?" Joker hissed, "Let's all just be pals."

He should not have revealed his position, the Batman realised now, bitterly. If he had simply used stealth to edge down the tunnel, through the shadows, he might have surprised Croc. He might have had an advantage. An uncharacteristic urgency had taken him over and now he was left without an option. As the bleak thought crossed his mind, he felt an unusual weight at his waist.

"Is he going to be sick?" Croc asked, and the Batman realised distantly that the man was referring to himself, not Joker. He assumed that the blood had drained from his face at the thought that dawned, darkly, across his mind.

It had to be quick. It had to be unexpected. The latter would hardly be difficult, considering it was one of the things he was notorious for: not having a gun. In a fluid motion he drew Joker's from his side, squeezed the trigger and caught Croc's arm holding Joker in place.

The shot exploded with sound in the tunnel, as did Croc's howls. Joker, however, stood surprisingly silent, eyes wide and trained on the Batman.

"Run," the Batman commanded, turning before he could make out the damage he had caused the cannibal. Behind him, he heard Joker tried to keep his pace. The pair retraced their path through the tunnels, faster, more recklessly this time, each threatening to lose their grip on the tunnel walls as they edged back along ledges. It was only when they had regained the Tumbler that Joker found his voice, hoarse though it was.

"Give me the gun."

The Batman, with a hand that held a slight tremor, obliged.

Joker popped open the barrel and tapped out the remaining bullets, dropping them to the floor of the Tumbler before he took the empty gun and threw it across the wasteland to land wetly in the rancid waters at the mouth of the sewer. The action seemed to calm the Batman, his shoulders less stiff at the sound of the gun disappearing.

"Would you?"

"Have killed him?" the Batman asked and with the waiver in his voice he sounded far more like Bruce Wayne.

"Yeah. Have you ever fired a gun, for that matter?"

"Yes. And I don't know. Never ask me again."

Joker studied him in silence before leaning back against the Tumbler's head rest, still and sombre, the blood beginning to congeal on his cheek.

!

"Hey, where are you going?" Jack watched as Bruce, having finished stitching Jack's cheek, turned to pick up his coat and walk to the door.

"I have a party tonight. I need to collect my new tuxedo. I'll be back tomorrow morning."

"I'll come with," Joker nodded enthusiastically. Bruce offered a taut sort of smile.

"You won't. Stay here."

"Doesn't it make more sense to let me go? I mean, you could either leave Joker alone in your manor with plenty of flammable objects or you could take Jack out to a party," he added, as though it was a clincher, "Why'd you think I got the nickname Joker? I'm fun at parties."

"Really?"

"I used to own a strip club."

"Your scars will raise too many questions," Bruce said with a shake of his head.

"Okay," Jack conceded, shrugging his own coat on all the while as though oblivious to what Bruce was saying, "How about this: give me a couple of hours. Meet me on the corner by your penthouse in the city. If I look presentable, I get to go, if not you can lock me in there until tomorrow. Then I won't even be _near_ your party to spoil it."

When Bruce looked less than convinced Jack pulled out his ace in the hole.

"Look, I just _planned_ for you," Jack said the word as though it caused him physical pain, "Let me go to a party, at least."

Bruce's eyes narrowed but he raised his wrist and glanced quickly at his Rolex.

"The penthouse, eight pm. If you break your word the Batman won't play cat and mouse. He'll just knock you unconscious and lock you in the penthouse. I don't have time for you tonight."

!

Were it not for the fact that he was stood where the pair had agreed, a bottle of wine in either hand, Bruce would have looked straight past Jack. Sliding into the Lamborghini beside Bruce, the man gave a little appreciative whistle.

"Well this is pretty nice," he nodded, stroking a hand over the leather, "Not Batmobile nice, but nice."

"Where are your scars?"

Jack's perfectly smooth lips stretched into a smile.

"It's good, right? I know a girl who does make up for movies," he ran a hand over his own smooth cheek, "No fires tonight now, with this amount of plastic on my face I'd go up like a torch. I brought a bottle of Petrus, hope that'll go down okay with your crowd."

Bruce gave up on trying to mask his interest in Jack's appearance. Even during the time the man had been living with him, he hadn't seen him look quite like this. Certainly, the disappearance of the scars made a dramatic difference but it was more than that. His hair, for one, looked newly shorn, if still on the long side. It was clean and curled about his face. His skin looked brighter and fresher than Bruce could ever recall having seen it too. And the suit, in its sombre colour and classic cut, all added to the oddly dignified and proud air pouring off the man.

"Bruce? Stop falling in love with me a second would ya?"

"How did you get a bottle of Petrus?" Bruce slipped the car into gear and moved back into the traffic (an easy enough feat: the Lamborghini parted the sea of cars like it was Moses).

"Like anyone else would: with money."

"And how did you get the money?"

"Now you're just prying," Jack dismissed. His eyes roved over the Lamborghini's dashboard to light upon the music controls. After some fiddling Jack seemed to light upon a song that met with his approval.

"Turn that off."

"No, you need to get in the mood," Jack insisted, "You're Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy tonight. You need everyone to think you aren't capable of having a thought in that pretty little head."

"And how can you help with that impression?"

"By pretending to be your equally idiotic friend," Jack said. He decisively turned up the music until it pounded through the car, thrumming through the seats themselves thanks to the hidden bass speakers. He wound down the car window and popped the champagne's cork out into the road. Jack took a swig from the bottle and sang along as Gotham slid further away behind them in the gathering darkness.

!

"Bruce," Lucius Fox stepped forward to shake Bruce's hand after the billionaire had disentangled himself from a gaggle of female acquaintances, "How are you faring?"

"Well, Lucius, thank you. How's the best CEO the world's ever seen?"

"Far too humble to respond to such a title, of course," Lucius smiled. His eye, however, fixed curiously on Bruce's guest who had been lighted upon just as quickly as Bruce himself. To the untrained eye, Lucius' interest was polite. Bruce, however, knew better.

"I know that you prefer that I don't lie to you Lucius," Bruce said, cryptically enough to avoid drawing any attention from eavesdroppers. Lucius nodded.

"So we'll leave your decisions to yourself, Bruce. Enjoy the party, but not too much," he warned before walking over to a more officious looking group of men talking over glasses of champagne and cigars.

Returning to Jack's side, Bruce had difficulty catching what the man was saying until he realised that Jack was in fact affecting a total different voice. The American drawl was now replaced with a curt, crisp and, for that matter, utterly convincing British accent.

"We met at Oxford, the business school," he was explaining to one curious business partner of Bruce's, "I'm sure he won't mind if I say that we both had our time weighted rather more in favour of play than work. That's how he got to be in such good shape though, plenty of rowing."

Bruce studied the man discreetly for a moment before reluctantly moving on to idly chat to a board member's wife with a suitably vapid smile on his own face. Still, he allowed his gaze to stray on occasion back to Jack. Each time, to Bruce's consternation, Jack pointedly returned the look with a nonchalant smile.

When people had begun to form little groups and were happily chatting Bruce allowed himself to stop playing host long enough to walk over to Jack's side. En route, Alfred, a tray of drinks in hand, beckoned him to one side. Reluctantly, Bruce followed.

"I hate to question your judgment Master Wayne," the butler said in such a way that Bruce knew he really had no such difficulty, "But do you really think it wise to invite your friend Jack tonight? You how he can get," the man said simply, letting his stony expression belie the true depth of his concerns.

"It was that or let him wallow at my penthouse," Bruce replied in kind, "And you know what he's like when he's left to his own devices."

"Don't I just," Alfred murmured, "Be careful Master Bruce. You're living very dangerously."

Bruce gave a grimace of agreement and walked back to Jack's side, moving him to one corner of the room.

"What the hell are you doing?" Bruce asked in an undertone, being sure to smile as he did so and sending a polite nod to a stakeholder passing by.

Jack quirked an eyebrow, lowering his champagne glass from his mouth.

"What? I'm good at this," he said, his accent reverting to usual.

"Why British?"

"Why not? Don't stifle me," Jack placed his glass on the tray of a passing waiter and seamlessly moved to grasp a full one, bringing the new drink to his lips.

"Don't get drunk. You might say something stupid."

"Just trust me," Jack said coolly, "You think I came to control Gotham through stupidity, hm?"

"How do you control Gotham?"

"Oh sure, you control the skies, the rooftops, the things people never see and never need to know about," Jack muttered, sending a little wink the way of one woman who seemed enamoured of him. The gesture sent her grinning and blushing back to conversation with her friends, "But I control the alleyways, I control the subways, I control those streets with the broken streetlights that they've really gotta go down if they want to get home. I control your people's fear."

"I thought you were my ally?"

"For now," Jack smiled, "What? You like being BFFs now, is that it? Trust me Bruce, or you're screwed. And if that means I want to pretend to be British, I'll be British. Got it?"

"Fine."

"Does it scare you though?"

"Nothing about you scares me."

"No, not _me_ exactly," Jack said, leaning back on the sideboard behind him, "I mean how easily I can become part of this world. How acceptable I can be."

"So?"

"So, you see know no similarities, huh?" Jack quirked a brow.

"What the hell do you mean?"

"This is what you do, isn't it?" Jack pressed ahead fiercely but softly as it became apparent that Wayne Enterprise's Chief Finance Officer was about to whisk Bruce away, "You become a part of this world so easily too."

"I _am_ a part of this world. I trespass on yours to stop you destroying _my _world."

"Really?" Jack pursed his lips, "Are you sure it's that way around? Because I see you here, and you could be that guy," he gestured subtly with his glass to one young, wealthy business associate of Bruce's, another, another (their names failed Bruce), "Or that one, or that one. But there's only one Batman."

"Why did I ever let you into my house, Jack?"

"I think you know the answer to that question too," Jack smiled politely, giving Bruce a little clap on the shoulder, "But if you'll excuse me, that charming little lady over there looks like she wants me to - ah, how to put it in respectable company – plough her in your gazebo."

"Fuck you."

"If you insist, just check with your CFO first that little Bruce Wayne's being a giant fag wouldn't drive down Wayne Enterprise stocks. The markets are bearish enough without that revelation," with that, Jack sped up through the flung wide French windows, hooking the blushing woman of before's arm with his own. While surprised, the woman merely gave a little laugh and leant against him as they hurried down into the lantern-lit garden. Bruce's first thought, unbidden and unwelcome, was that of how different the woman's reaction would have been, had Jack done exactly the same thing in a purple suit, purple gloves and warped, week-old make-up.

!

"Can you believe Wayne?" Jack said in something of a stage whisper to his new acquaintance, "He's trying to get me to talk about equity when it's a night like _this_ and there are companions like _you_ around. He doesn't know how to switch off that man."

"Are we talking about the same Bruce?" the woman laughed, the sound loud and vulgar from too much champagne, "Spelunking, sky diving, partying Bruce Wayne?"

"Oh, he's changing," Jack led the woman by the hand inside the deserted gazebo at one end of a rose-lined path, "He's changed a lot already. Much more serious now."

"Well the board will be happy about that-" the woman tilted her head to allow Jack to nibble and kiss at her collar bone, his hands pressed against the gazebo's wooden frame behind her, possessively canopying her.

"I'm not so sure," Jack said. His accent cracked but his companion seemed too content to comment, "You see, I have a little theory about Bruce. It's a bit crazy though: wanna hear it?"

Apparently, as good as the neck nibbling (and now, earlobe sucking) was, the woman could keep quiet no longer and lowered her chin and her gaze back down to Jack's.

"Are you American?"

"Possibly," Jack conceded. He moved one hand now so that his body formed a pleasant sort of prison about the woman's, trapping her in place, "Do you wanna hear it?"

"I've heard your voice before…" the woman said, frowning in confusion.

"Maybe you have but," Jack leaned in closer still, voice a growl, "Do you – want to – _hear it?"_

"Yes?" the woman whispered, eyes sad and startled by the change in her companion. Jack smiled and leant forward again, drawing out a flinch instead of a happy tilt of the neck from the woman now.

"I think Bruce Wayne is the-"

"Jack."

Jack blew out his breath in a loud, exaggerated manner. Letting go off his little hostage and seeing her stumble over to Bruce's side, he raised his eyebrows.

"What?" his real accent (or at least, what Jack _thought_ was his own real accent) sounded out now, "You know it's rude to interrupt people when they're having a conversation."

"Bruce, I've heard that voice before-" the woman repeated in a confused whisper.

"Liza, please go back to the party. It's fine. My friend here has just has a little too much to drink, he can get nasty like this. I'm sorry if this has spoiled your evening," Bruce said, quickly and so smoothly it sounded heartless to Jack's ear, "Now please go back to the house."

"But Bruce, doesn't he sound like-"

"Go back to the house," Bruce said, all hint of the polite host gone now.

With a shake in her step that wasn't the result of the alcohol alone, the woman made her way back along the long path, back through the manor's French doors.

"You sick fuck," Bruce hissed. Jack grinned, falteringly, as though at a funeral and aware of how inappropriate the expression was.

"No, _listen_," Bruce said and now it was he who had Jack trapped, just as Jack had trapped Liza moments before, "You _sick fuck_._"_

When Jack refused to stop breaking out into fits and starts of smiles and grins, Bruce simply grabbed the man's jaw in a powerful grip and squeezed it with a dangerous, pincer-like strength.

"About to break your one rule?" Jack whispered, spluttering with the effort to work his jaw against Bruce's hold.

"Never," Bruce snarled back, shoving Jack's head back against the wood of the gazebo with a resounding crack. Jack let his eyes flutter shut, rather like Eliza's had when he had kissed and licked at the join of her neck to her shoulder.

"You _sick fuck_," Bruce hissed, "I know your promises aren't worth shit but I thought self-preservation would stop you from doing something so _stupid_."

""Self-preservation"?" Jack repeated, words slurred.

"If you tell them who I am, the Batman will die," Bruce said vehemently, pushing Jack harder against the wood as though to convey the truth of his words, to emphasise them, "And then where will you be?"

"Why, I'll just be a poor little clown without a circus!" Jack sobbed out, mocking. His mood instantly flipped however and he added in a growl, "Is that the answer you're expecting?"

"I don't expect _anything_ from you, you little piece of _shit,_" Bruce said, voice getting lower.

"What will happen," Jack said, reaching up a hand of his own to clutch at the back of Bruce's head. The other man tried to duck the hold but the other was insistent, vicious, fingers twining in Bruce's hair to keep him still, "What will _actually_ happen, if I tell that little girl who I am, and who you keep around you-"

"Stop talking, just stop fucking talking-"

"Is Bruce Wayne will die," Jack whispered this time, and Bruce fell into silence, chest heaving.

"Poor old Bruce Wayne will die," Jack yanked at Bruce's hair for emphasis with each snarled word.

Bruce was visibly trembling as he tried to return the long, hard stare Jack was fixing him with.

"And I think we all know where the Batman would be if Bruce Wayne died. Having the time of his li-"

Jack brought his other hand up to Bruce's neck to steady the man. He worked his mouth against Bruce's as it practically sobbed and growled against his; gnawed at his. Jack pushed his body forward, hard and furious, against Bruce's rocking hips. And when the Batman snarled and ground, raw and painful against him, Jack cried out in desperation. And when Bruce sobbed and tried to push him away in the aftermath, Joker let the whole world hear his laughter.

!

**Notes: **For anyone interested, Jack listens to "Bonkers" by rapper Dizzee Rascal. Naturally.


	4. Chapter 4

**Note: **Another random tidbit, this time the songs I've primarily been writing "Grace" to:

_Bonkers – Dizzee Rascal  
>Time is Running OutHysteria – Muse  
>Where is my Mind? – The Pixies<br>Smiley Faces – Gnarls Barkley  
>S&amp;MDisturbia – Rihanna  
>I'm Gonna Make You Love Me – Diana Ross and the Temptations (So Jack's theme tune)<br>Wolf Like Me – TV on the Radio  
>The Bitter End – Placebo<em>

**Chapter 4**

"Boss?"

Jack remembered the days when being called "Boss" had been satisfying. Now, it was just annoying as hell: after all, a fucking parrot could be taught to squawk the sort of shit his boys came out with. There was no real reverence either: that required far more brain cells than they collectively possessed. Rather instead, there was a terrified and tentative laughing fear in their voices (the real reason he had the nickname Joker, or at least that's how he remembered it this week).

He slapped one boy on the shoulder, sending the man shaking even more, then slipped behind the counter of the comedy club's – Split Sides - bar. A well-aimed fist to the cash register sent the drawer flying open. He pulled a slight face at the mediocre takings then siphoned off roughly half into his coat's inner pocket.

"Drink kiddies?" he turned his back to pick a nice bottle of whiskey out from the display. Turning his back was one of his favourite things to do, in any company. It was the perfect opportunity, yet so few people took it. The few who did tended to get promoted or "demoted" (and by "demoted" he of course meant dismembered and thrown in the river).

"Thanks boss," came the crowed, tremulous chorus. Jack slopped the whiskey into smeared glasses and shoved them down the bar towards the lumbering idiots. He took his own and necked it without really tasting the stuff.

"Haven't seen you around boss," one man dared to come out with, having swallowed his liquid courage. Jack leaned against the counter and gave a solemn sort of nod.

"Busy."

"Rumour is-"

Jack leaned towards the man, interest in his eyes. This particular boy, Jack recalled, was actually the "owner" of the establishment. Though they weren't visible, Jack remembered that the man had huge scars up either side of his body: his sides had split. It hadn't been one of Jack's more subtle gags but it had got the point across and the man had stopped trying to put money aside for himself or his daughter's education or some other such shit. Still, the near death experience had definitely stiffened the guy's backbone and so his gulp at Jack's apparent interest was a smallish one.

"You're turning against all your," the man considered his words and Jack simply smiled interestedly as he waited, "Your old…_friends_. Colleagues."

"Well that's a very valid concern, Tom-"

"My name's Paul-"

"Well Tom," Jack paused to hop up on the counter and sit, cross legged. A couple of the youngest guys flinched until they seemed convinced that Jack had simply ensconced himself, "That really is a very valid concern. You, as a bright, ambitious businessman are concerned that your angel investor has made a poor business decision that may impact negatively upon your revenues. Isn't that right Tom?"

"I suppose boss but-"

"So ask yourself this Tom," Jack cut across, taking up the whiskey bottle and swigging a little before continuing, "Daring business decisions aside, who would you prefer to have in your corner? Hm? A guy in a bowler hat, a guy with an _umbrella_, a girl with a _houseplant_, or me," Jack carefully extracted a lighter from his coat pocket, "the guy sat on your bar with spirits and access to fire?"

"You, boss," Paul blurted out hurriedly, nodding so hard Jack wouldn't have been surprised to see the man's head go flying off across the club floor, "Of course, you."

Jack dropped down onto the floor beside Paul, squeezing his shoulder for a moment as he murmured in his ear.

"Never fucking doubt me you piece of shit," Jack paused momentarily before snorting with laughter. The snort became a howl and the howl, in turn, lead to fat tears rolling down his face.

"Boss?" another kid asked carefully.

"In joke," Jack explained, a smile still gripping his lips like a vice as he headed back out. He paused by the door as he caught sight of a little blonde thing, wide eyed and, had she not been in the middle of trying-not-to-piss-herself, probably bushy tailed too. Jack tamed the smile down a bit and held out his hand to her.

"Oh, no, that's not one of our girls, boss," Paul explained weakly, "That's my daughter."

Jack turned around to shrug haplessly.

"I see no difference," Jack took the girl's unoffered hand and pulled her to her feet, "Come on sweet pea. I've got something that needs a woman's touch."

"Oh?" the young woman whispered, shooting a look to her father as she was dragged outside.

"Yeah. Me."

!

"There's no one who can say you do things by halves, Master Wayne."

Bruce turned to give Alfred a sheepish smile.

"I ran out of room on the corkboard."

Alfred placed the day's paper on one bedside table and walked the length of the room. He scanned the myriad papers that coated the walls, giving the impression of a covering of feathers with the way they curled and lifted away in places. The pages varied: some were hastily scrawled notes, others photos. Some were snippets from websites or newspapers, others simply pages torn from books. All of these were connected by pinned lengths of red string and, at intervals, ragged red lines drawn right onto the wall itself ("Jack's" doing, Alfred assumed).

"You can say that," Alfred muttered.

"It'll be gone soon," Bruce promised. The words, unintentionally, set Alfred frowning.

"Three days until the deadline, isn't it Master Bruce?"

"Yes," the young man agreed softly, pacing the length of the wall. Alfred noted that the man was studying a branch that appeared to lead off in the direction of a collection of photographs of Ra's al Ghul, "Not long."

"Practically all of Gotham's criminal class are behind bars again Bruce. Thanks to you," Alfred said with a weak smile.

"But not Ra's al Ghul."

"Or Mr Napier."

Bruce's eyes continued to scour the length of the wall and he spoke in a distracted, distant voice.

"They all speak of a man in charge. It's Ra's."

"You will do your best, Master Wayne," Alfred insisted, coming to stand by the young man's side, "And it will have to be enough. I'm not sure you should focus all of your attention on Ra's though, even if he is at the heart of all this madness."

"You mean Jack?"

"Of course I do," Alfred agreed, "He must go back to Arkham. Even when the threat to yourself has gone with the capture of Ra's, Gotham will not rest until Joker is back where he belongs."

"He's helped," Bruce's gaze dropped to the floor, apparently seeing beyond the information he had gathered and plastered on the walls.

"Possibly helped you," Alfred conceded, "But I can't help wondering how many people he helps when you have your eye off him."

It was, of course, a butler's place to know when his presence was no longer desired and Alfred liked to think he was especially fine-tuned to his own young master's moods. He chose, therefore, to simply give the fresh newspaper a pat on his way to the door.

"I brought the Globe, Master Wayne. I took the liberty of cutting out the page that related to that wrestler you've been keeping your eye on."

To Alfred's relief a flash of his old Master Wayne returned at the words. Bruce turned and shot him a genuine, if tired, smile.

"What would I do without you Alfred?"

"With the greatest respect Master Wayne," Alfred smirked, "I haven't the foggiest."

!

The first thing Bruce's eyes lit upon was the blurred, ghost-white outline of The Wall. His mind quickly, if puzzledly, noted that the shadows had lengthened, the writing that coated the wall forming a blur in the gloom. Only after he had considered his Rolex and noted the time – gone midnight – did another realisation dawn on him. He had, he was certain, fallen asleep at his desk. Now, he was laid on his bed, looking out at the neatly ordered piles of paper on that table. And not just that: behind his head there was the warmth of a body; the firm press of a shoulder. The smell of a cigarette reached him, causing his nose to wrinkle.

"Good morning sweet pea," Jack murmured through a ring of smoke. Bruce moved to sit up and away from the other man, openly frowning.

"You looked like you'd get a bitch of a neck crick so I just woke you up long enough to get you onto the bed. You rolled over; didn't wanna move you and wake you. Billionaire playboys shouldn't have dark circles like those."

"We should have gone on patrol tonight."

"Tomorrow. You aren't sleeping right," Jack muttered around the cigarette dangling from his lip, "Not everyone can rock that lifestyle y'know. Bane will still be giant and jacked up then."

Bruce let out a weary sigh, rubbing a hand over his face as he simply gave into the temptation to lay back against his pillow once more, albeit with his open eyes staring, blurrily, at the ceiling.

"Go back to your room Jack."

"I was working: lookin' at the, er, the stuff on the wall, so no freaking out that I was molesting you in your sleep or anything," Jack griped. Bruce flinched in a way that indicated that the man hadn't even considered the possibility. The reaction gave Jack cause to chuck lowly.

"Calm down princess, I'm not planning on talking about the gazebo incident any time soon."

Bruce let his eyes fall close and his brow knit. He felt the darkness wrap about him. He felt too how close Jack sat at his side, the warmth and weight of his body on the bed beside Bruce's.

"I don't understand Jack."

He heard Jack blow out another smoke ring.

"Bane's not really on planet Earth. He's just a whole heap of steroids and testosterone. There's no sense to him, just a lot of rage."

"No, you," Bruce said, firmly but sleepily, "I don't understand you."

Jack gave a quiet laugh. Now, the laughs scarcely touched Bruce, let alone set his teeth on edge.

"Me? Oh I'm simple as can be."

"I doubt that."

"No, really," Jack's finger poked his side and Bruce slit his eyes open to see the man looking down into his face. Shuffling up the bed, Bruce sat up so that the two were eye to eye, "I just do what I like, when I like. That's it. Simple."

"But why don't you just-"

"Nono," Jack shook his hand dismissively, "I just explained, okay? There's no _questioning_ it. There's no _imploring_ a hedonistic shit like me Bruce. So don't worry your pretty little head over me. Worry about the guy who could snap your spine like a toothpick. Pick your battles."

"You could have killed me just now. I was unconscious, inches from you," Bruce insisted. His attempts to catch Jack's eye failed as the man took to looking out at the inky blue pitch of the sky outside, taking another drag on his cigarette, the ash drooping down at the tip.

"And why," Jack asked through a mouthful of smoke, "Would I want to do that, hm? I told you, before. Or is it that you see the Batman as something separate, someone else? That'll change, don't worry," the man said, giving Bruce's arm a pat that only caused Bruce to frown harder.

"Told me what?"

"You complete me," Jack smiled, teeth glinting in the gloom, "Killing you now would be such a waste."

"But not later?"

Jack shrugged coolly, flicking the cigarette, "Hey, I don't plan. I just do what I like. Pay attention Master Wayne."

"We are going to end up killing each other, aren't w-"

Jack cut him off with a kiss. Bruce felt bile rise in his throat but he failed to stop himself from opening his mouth in reply. The bitter taste of smoke slipped down his own throat before the billionaire pulled away, head bowed. He pulled the cigarette from the other man's hand and crushed it on the night table, drawing a snort from Jack.

"The truth's far worse than that, isn't it?" Jack murmured as he slipped closer still to Bruce, breathing in the warmth that Bruce had just exhaled, "I have no fucking idea what we're going to do to one another but it's gonna be-"

"Spectacular?" Bruce supplied. Wearily, he rested his forehead against Jack's, his eyes firmly closed as though to ward off the nightmare of the other's eyes staring back at him.

"Terrible," Jack corrected.

!

It had taken minutes before Bane had even been able to stop laughing at the sight of his adversary. The Dark Knight simply stood there and stared at the man in the darkness of the gym he was using as his base.

"You look bigger in the newspaper photographs," Bane explained, still with a rumble of humour, when he finally sobered.

"So do you," the Batman returned – an utter lie. If anything, the wrestler looked even wider, taller, each and every vein straining in his arms and neck. The flesh of his arms looked hard like hide, thick and leather-like from the constant abuse it was put through.

"I know what you have been doing to the others," Bane took a step forward and the floor vibrated with the shifting of his weight.

The Batman remained silent, simply watching. The silence apparently maddened Bane and the man pressed on, coming to a stop right in front of the Batman, toe-to-toe, where he easily cast the man into shadow.

"You know why you _could_ catch them?"

The Batman's face remained impassive but his eyes never left Bane's face, dark and unreadable as they were.

"Because they are weak," Bane stretched out his shoulders and the Batman could _hear_ how each muscle creaked, how the skin practically groaned at the motion, "I do not have that problem Batman. Let-"

The word was punctuated with an easy swipe of the man's arm that the Batman was unable to block or sidestep and the man was thrown off his feet with a grunt.

"Me-"

The arm came down upon the Batman's prone figure as he attempted to scramble to his feet.

"Show-"

In desperation the Batman simply covered his head with his arm only for a punch to be landed on the limb. He closed his eyes tight against the shock of pain and force that ran through the limb on impact.

"Y-"

Bane was cut off with a choked sound. In the darkness, the Batman could make out two different sorts of gloom: one a solid, immoveable darkness that hung in the air of the gym itself. The other, darker still, was moving quickly behind Bane's back. The wrestler was attempted to spin about to grab that darkened figure but instead contorted with a hideous, machine-like groan. The Batman ducked once more as behind Bane a flurry of motion, like a nest of snakes, began to flail and tear at the air: the Venom pipes.

Pouring their hideous, violently green contents into the air and onto the walls, the wrestler began to gasp and buck. His over-large arms tried desperately to clamp at a few of the pipes, only for the force of the Venom cascading from them to send them flying out of his grasp once more. It was only a matter of seconds before the wrestler had dropped to the ground, shaking violently and moaning. His skin seemed to turn darker, almost bruised in appearance, as the veins and flesh both relaxed, flattening and slackening against the man's abused muscles.

Joker pulled off his balaclava to reveal his customary – although of late quite rare – face paint, smeared by the Venom that had sprayed it.

"Fuck, what's the equivalent of Golden Showers for Venom fuelled wrestlers?" the man asked, his voice giddy with adrenaline. He shook his hair drier and approached the Batman's side. As he did so he ran a gloved finger over the knife he had evidently used to slash the pipes and sucked a fat globule of Venom off the fingertip. He smacked his lips together.

"That stuff has a bite," the man muttered, instantly walking faster whether from the drug or its placebo effect. Joker "accidentally" trod on Bane's outstretched hand as he reached the Batman's side, drawing out a feeble groan from the wrestler.

"We're getting fucking good at this," Joker grinned, his face lit up with the kick of energy the Venom was providing, "We really need to start charging. I keep hearing about this bald guy who's looking for some people-"

"Shut up," the Batman insisted, practically implored. Joker quirked an eyebrow.

"Did he get a shot in?"

The Batman offered a lone nod.

"Arm's broken."

Joker, curiously, reached out to prod the offending limb, hanging limply at the Batman's side. The man bit down on a hiss and instead chose to grab the clown by the front of his Venom splattered black sweater with his good hand.

"Here," Joker ran his finger over the other side of the knife's blade once more and gathered another drop of Venom from the metal. He extended the finger to the Batman's thin line of a mouth, "Open up."

"No."

With a clean finger Joker poked the broken arm once more, causing the Batman to grit his teeth once more. Under the cowl there was the slightest movement: the knitting of a brow, perhaps.

"Just do it, it'll take the edge off until you set it," Joker insisted, "I went around with a bullet in my thigh for a week just by sipping a few Venom smoothies."

"It's addictive."

Joker rolled his eyes.

"Not in this quantity, genius."

The Batman simply returned Joker's stare coolly.

"C'mon, Batman, all the cool kids are doing it."

"Will you shut up if I do it?"

"Unlikely."

Shooting something that might have been a despairing look off to one side, if Joker had been cruel enough to analyse the expression, the Batman grabbed Joker's hand with his own good hand and practically bit the Venom from the fingertip, teeth dragged over the leather as he sucked the droplet up.

"Well someone's clearly never given head," Joker muttered, earning him his own hand twisted a little roughly before being let go by the Batman. The effect on the man was fast: his shoulders straightened, jaw relaxed and the man turned to walk back out of the gym, albeit it careful not to move his other arm as he did so.

"The Venom also ought to help you accept," Joker said, sliding into the Tumbler's driver's seat, "That with one arm you're really not up to driving this thing. Want me to buckle your seat belt, sweet cheeks?"

The Batman refused to respond but remained still enough to allow Joker to scramble across him and pull the seatbelt into position.

Before pressing the ignition (Joker had watched the Batman driving enough times to know how to get the Batmobile going – kind of), Joker turned to smirk at his silent, stony faced companion.

"We're a good team Bruce."

"I'm not Bruce."

"No?" Joker quickly stole a kiss that, to his surprise, he found was returned, hurriedly and furiously by the Venom fuelled "hero", "Then I ought to warn you, I'm giving it away all over town."

"Oh?" the Batman asked reluctantly.

"Yeah," Joker got the Batmobile to set off with only something of a mild bounce and judder, "I've got this really sweet piece of ass across town. Billionaire, industrialist, playboy."

"Sounds nice," the Batman muttered.

Joker turned to consider the Batman for a moment. It might have been the gloom of the Batmobile's interior playing tricks – it probably was – but he could have sworn the Batman had the hint of an upward tilt to his lips. It was too much to claim that it was a smile, per se, but it was enough for Joker. Enough for now.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 featuring Ra's al Ghul, a lot of fire and the musical stylings of Britney Spears. Warning: pretty dark, pretty violent and not at all pretty in any other respect.

**Chapter 5**

"Wh-Hey!" Jack's tone became louder and more indignant when he confirmed what he was seeing – the small bonfire in the bone dry bedroom sink was indeed his comedy club profits.

"HEY!"

Impressed with the size of Bruce's balls for actually _doing_ something like burn his money, Jack simply turned to glare at the billionaire rather than attempt to put out the stack of bills.

"I'm not going to allow you run your rackets from Wayne Manor Jack," Bruce didn't bother to look up from his study of several sides of notes on the League of Shadows as he spoke.

Jack turned back to watch the final flames curl about the withering dollar bills, consuming the last few fifties.

"Oh, gee, well I sure have learned my lesson," he muttered, "I really feel like volunteering at the old folks' home now, how about it?"

"I didn't say I expected you to change, I just said that you won't do that while you're here," Bruce murmured, eyed trained on The Wall.

"I know you know about the rest of what I do," Jack said, coming to stand at his shoulder, "I can sense when you're watching me out there," he rested his weight against Bruce's good arm for a moment, "S'kinda kinky."

Bruce pulled away with distaste. Jack only laughed as he turned with mock-hurt on his face to track Bruce's sitting down at his desk. He made a point of sitting on top of the newspaper Bruce was making a bid to read, swinging his feet as he did so. Bruce let out his breath in a sigh and considered the man, eyebrows raised expectantly.

"I don't disappoint you, do I?" Jack asked, humour gone.

"To be disappointed in you suggests I have any expectations for you whatsoever," Bruce said impassively, "I'm trying to prepare for tonight – you could do the same."

Jack shuffled back off the newspaper in order to give it a derisory, momentary and, of course, upside down, glance before giving up on the effort and fixing Bruce with a stare once more.

"No point, we're screwed."

"Jack-"

"No, really, look," Jack slapped a hand down on the table top in a manner reminiscent to that of the billionaire himself, "If we're right in thinking these guys we've been dealing with have Ra's as their ringleader, we're really screwed. He won't just want you dead; he wants Gotham gone. If all that's standing between him and Gotham is two men, one a Bat with a broken wing and the other, ah, little old me, good luck Gotham."

"But you've taken on the entire GCPD before," Bruce pointed out though he avoided meeting the touched smile his unintended compliment drew from Jack.

"Yeah, but I never _planned_ it or _thought_ about how fucked I was," Jack noted, "That's the difference Bruce."

The pair fell silent for a moment, only for Jack to pipe up once more, tone pressing.

"Do I disappoint you?"

"Jack, there's no way I can answer that question. Just, leave me alone for a while, I'll get you at midnight-"

"Because you don't disappoint me," Jack insisted, allowing himself to be physically manhandled to the door by Bruce, the man's strength obvious, that of a monster with power in reserve, even with one arm broken and plastered.

"Jack, just leave."

"I'll go and do something bad. At a hospital," Jack cringed and corrected himself, almost chiding, "No, I've done that, that's _typical_ of me," he looked imploringly into Bruce's weary eyes, "Some old lady's house then: any old lady. I'll do something really, truly, mindless-"

"Just stop. I don't have time for-"

"I'll-"

Practically out of despair, Bruce chose to kiss the other man, drawing him close, his good hand gripping at Jack's hair as Jack kissed him back, sloppy, pathetic; ugly in the motion. The billionaire pulled away to stroke at the man's cheek in a way that practically constituted a slap.

"You don't disappoint me," he offered feebly. Jack's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"I'll fuck Ra's up if you think he's more interesting than me."

Bruce let a smirk slip at that.

"Please Jack," he said, his tiredness overwhelming his perpetual anger for the briefest of moments, "Please, be my guest."

XXXXX

When the lights cut out in his office Commissioner Gordon merely lifted his gaze from his computer screen with polite interest. He had come to realise quite quickly that the department wasn't prone to electrical outages. It was his office alone that had this particular issue.

"It's not wise for public enemy number one to stride into the building housing the men searching for him," Gordon said, pleasantly enough. He made no attempt to turn around. He knew the routine by now.

"Bats don't stride," came the impossibly gravelly voice at his shoulder. The Commissioner chanced a wry smile at the words.

"Maybe. Whatever the case, it must be serious if you're taking these kinds of chances."

The silence was loaded but eventually the reply came, quieter now.

"Yes."

"How can I help?" Gordon wondered if the answer ought not to be "Can I help?"

"I haven't much time," the Batman explained. At Gordon's shoulder there came the flash of white – an envelope. The Commissioner took it in his hand, pausing in his bid to open it at the feel of a gauntlet on his shoulder– surprisingly heavy but the touch careful.

"Read the front."

Gordon obliged, peering at the careful, flowing script over the frames of his glasses. A small frown came to his lips but he nodded all the same.

"I can do that."

"And what comes after?"

"Within reason, yes," Gordon agreed. He could sense the suspicion of the other man and added, "Whether this city trusts you or not, I know you're the best hope we have."

"Thank you Jim."

"Now go, before anyone comes to check on the electricity," Gordon smiled weakly, "And good luck-"

The lights had been thrown back on; the man had gone. Of course. Gordon placed the envelope carefully in one drawer and locked it for good measure.

XXXXXX

"Well don't you look dapper."

Bruce couldn't resist a little smile at that; he turned from his study of Wayne Manor's grounds through one large window to consider Alfred. The man was as straight backed and staunch as ever. A fixture, Bruce supposed, in his life, in Wayne Manor.

Surreally, the butler came to stand in front of Bruce so that he might brush a few imaginary specks of dust from the chest plate of his Kevlar suit. The cowl still dangled in his good hand and, when Alfred made to take it to help him don it, Bruce shook his head.

"I can do it in the Tumbler."

"Right you are," Alfred studied his utility belt, clearly doing a quick check that Bruce had everything; it only made Bruce's smile wider and sadder.

"I'll be glad when this is all done with Master Wayne."

"Jack," Bruce said, not even phrasing the name as a question.

"I don't claim to understand how complicated your existence is now, with this business," Alfred gestured to the suit, "But I reckon it's a lot worse with him in it. He needs to go back to the asylum."

Uncomfortably, Bruce swallowed and found his voice.

"You know-"

"Bruce," Alfred wore a wry smirk, "You might be the World's Greatest Detective but I reckon I'm a pretty dab hand at butling," the smirk turned sour as he agreed, "I know you and he have had a bit of a… thing. And that's why I say: send him back to Arkham Bruce. For everyone's sake. For your city. For your own."

"I'm so sorry Alfred-"

"No point in being sorry," the butler insisted firmly, "Just do what has to be done now Master Bruce."

With that, Bruce tentatively held out the letter he had had grasped at his side. Meeting Bruce's eye in puzzlement, Alfred took the letter in hand and read the sentence written on the envelope as Bruce headed towards the entrance hall. The butler's eyes were quick to go wide with horror.

"Master Wayne? If this is your bloody last will and testament I'll bloody knock your bloody block off-"

Bruce abandoned his bid for the entrance hall to grab Alfred in a tight, bear hug, burying his face in the man's shoulder for the briefest of moments before he steeled his resolve and pulled away.

"You're a good boy, Bruce," Alfred said, eyes twinkling with tears.

There was a physical twist in Bruce's gut as he identified the tone for what it was: hopeful.

"Thank you Alfred, that'll be all."

XXXXXXX

"Said goodbye to your pop?"

Bruce gritted his teeth instinctively at Jack's glib tone.

"Don't. Don't talk about him, you have no right," he insisted as Jack pulled the Tumbler out of the Bat Cave and began the dark drive towards the address they had found at Bane's gym hide-out.

"Sorry," Jack conceded as he pushed the Tumbler into a higher gear, "I'm not good with family."

"Oh," Bruce offered dully. When it became clear that was all Bruce had to contribute, Jack added softly.

"My dad left when I was a kid, mom didn't really care," the man waited for a police car to drive past their junction before joining the highway for Gotham, "Got married way too young, had a kid way too young, life kind of unravelled but they wound up getting killed anyway," he said, voice practically a monotone, "So that was lucky."

In spite of himself, Bruce chanced a look at Jack's face only to find, in the darkness of the Tumbler's interior, that the man's expression matched his tone: empty, blank.

"Is that true?"

Jack pursed his lips before shrugging, eyes shuttered and focused on the road ahead.

"Could be. I forget," there was no amusement in the confession.

The rest of their journey was silent save the climb and descent of the Tumbler's gears. With a sickening taste in his mouth Bruce reflected on how simple accessing the empty slum housing project was. No-one, Bruce knew, was here to stop them. No-one would intervene. They were alone and they parked alongside one decrepit tenement without coming to anyone's notice.

"It's the school at the end there, right?" Jack asked. Bruce knew it was merely for the sake of speaking, filling the void of the deserted street with some sign of life. He nodded, attempting to pull the cowl on single handed. Jack came over to his side and took the hood from him, placing it carefully on his head and studying his eyes afterwards for a slow, pensive moment before forcing the twinge of a smile onto his scarred mouth.

"Thank you."

"Come on," Jack said, steeling himself, "Let's get the prom started, huh?"

It was easier said than done, of course. Within a few steps the Batman sensed just how wrong he had been in his assumption that the street was deserted. Rather, there were figures, silent and cloaked in darkness. As he and the Joker strode up towards the towering old building of the school, they came out from those shadows and launched their attacks.

The Batman replied in kind, practically without a thought. Joker too appeared to react as though moving in a dream, his punches and kicks perfectly timed and vicious but his expression drawn and shuttered.

It was a testament to their work of the last several weeks, how synchronised they had become. When one masked attacker became aware of how the Batman held one arm still at his side and accordingly made for the limb Joker stepped in without a sound and sent the man reeling to the floor with a solid punch to the face.

Within a matter of minutes the pair found themselves surrounded by scores of felled men, groaning or, in some cases, silenced forever. The Batman looked beyond and through the thugs before raising his gaze back up to the shadow of the auditorium, stretching out along the road to meet them.

"It's time," the Batman noted. He stepped over the bodies as far as was possible, feeling the giving press of flesh under his boot once or twice before the path was clear up to the stairs of the school auditorium, its shattered windows like broken teeth in its face.

"Come on," Joker said, picking up the pace as they threatened to halt at the bottom of the flight, "We can regret this when we're dead."

In unison, they mounted the stairs.

XXXXXXX

The darkness made it hard to judge in just how much of a state of disrepair the school's auditorium was, although the quiet howl of the wind that ran through the hall gave some idea. Its sound systems were still puzzlingly functional, however, with garbled but deafening music pumping through the building as the pair entered. One other detail of the hall's interior was instantly apparent: at the auditorium's centre there was the clear silhouette of a figure tied to a chair, muffled murmurs and whimpers coming from behind their gag.

The Batman strode closer to the hostage, Jack remaining warily at the room's edge, a frown on his scarred face.

"It's a trap-" Jack called out.

At this distance, the Batman could see the distinctive beard of Ra's al Ghul on the figure strapped to the chair. But the sobs, high and practically delirious, were in total contrast to the farcical appearance of the hostage.

"I oughta know: I mean, I set it."

Behind him, the Batman heard the roar of fire. His quick turn revealed that a long, ragged line of petrol about the auditurium's edges had been ignited and was quickly creating a jagged, high wall of flame out the old gym benches. The fire had soon trapped the Batman, the hostage and Joker within its perimeter.

_The earth is movin' but I can't feel the ground_ the music declared.

Joker came, not quite walking alongside, but rather skipping.

_Every time you look at me, my heart is jumpin', it's easy to see_

Joker got up in the Batman's face for a moment, smiling along to the booming beat of the song before heading over to the figure on the chair. The person began to convulse and shriek louder at having become the focus of Joker's attentions. Joker ripped the goatee off, then the gag and gave the woman beneath's face a little pat, causing her to force her eyes tightly shut.

_You drive me crazy, I just can't sleep, I'm so excited, I'm in too deep-_

The Batman located the speakers through the bank of fire and hurled a Batarang at their wiring.

"_Crazy, but it-_" Joker was left singing along as the sound system came to a spluttering halt. Over the roar of fire he voiced his disappointment.

"I had a dance routine coming up."

"This-"

Joker gave a bashful sort of smile, nodding his head towards first the fire, then the woman, spirit gum still stuck to her sore looking face.

"Good, right? I wanted something special for our anniversary: one year since we met! How the time flies!"

"Oh?"

Joker conceded a shrug, "No idea. More like it's a Tuesday and I have a lot," he practically purred the words, "_Of gasoline_. But then, then I met this pretty little girl here," he came to a stop behind the hostage, shaking her, doll-like, by the hair, "And it gave me all kind of ideas."

"Let her go."

"Recognise her?"

"Let her go, Joker," the Batman snarled.

"Now, she had this _crazy_," Joker made a little show of singing the word, "Idea. Tell the nice six foot tall bat what you _thought_."

The woman could manage little more than sob so, with a sigh, Joker crouched down beside her and attempted mimicry.

"_I think that dishy Bruce Wayne is the Batman_," he added a gasp afterwards, looking to the woman as though conferring with her. He shot a wide eyed gaze to the Batman, "What'd ya think, Bats?"

"Let her go or I kill you."

"But you don't," Joker smiled, luxuriantly, giving the woman's hair another ruffle as he got back to his feet, "You never do. You _indulge _me. Constantly. Because I get ya, Bats, I get ya like no one else could possibly get ya. You and me-"

"Please-" the woman choked out.

"I think, Bats," Joker smiled, wider still, "You should tell this little lady who you are."

The Batman kept his mouth shut, a firm, thin line. Joker rolled his eyes.

"Typical. Okay, maybe this will interest you," when the Batman made no bid to respond Joker went strolling off, eyes clamped shut. The Batman saw how perilously close the man came to one growing bank of fire, surely feeling the obscene heat pouring off the flames but uninterested in such matters. With a growl the Batman ran forward and grabbed him roughly from behind. Joker twirled about in his grasp, practically dancing about the Batman as he finally threw his eyes wide open again.

"What will interest me?" the Batman snarled.

"See, that's all I'm asking for, some conversation," Joker sneered, "This little lady, she went to the Globe. Sadly, the Globe recently hired a new CEO," Joke interrupted himself to explain, "By "hire" I mean I shot their old guy and brought _quite _a lot of money in unmarked bills to their offices which convinced them to hire Mr Jack Napier instead. Anyway, she went to the Globe with the announcement that Bruce Wayne was the Batman. We didn't bother to run the story."

The Batman remained silent, eyes narrowed.

"So then, the _intrepid_ little bitch," Joker continued in a snarl, "She threatened to go to _Metropolis _and get some kid interested called La-"

"We will all have burned to death before you finish," the Batman growled. Joker smiled sweetly.

"Then wanna know why we chose not to run her piece?"

"No."

"She was _sure_ a friend of Bruce "The Batman" Wayne's, a real handsome friend actually - I'd hit it," Joker rambled, "…was me. Weird, huh? _Crazy_, even."

The Batman felt his fists clench at his sides. Regardless, Joker strode back to the woman, moving to stand behind her and massage her shoulders like she was a boxer about to enter the ring.

"You see that we have a predicament. Little Liza, here, is going to get offered a _lot_ of money to tell papers that Bruce Wayne is a psychological nut bag who hangs out with even bigger psychological nut bags before going out at night dressed in latex to fight those same guys in a kinda homoerotic, Freudian wet dream. If she has any sense left after this, she might accept those offers. I mean, the girl had enough balls to watch us jerk off that night."

The Batman made no move to respond though his heavy breathing had set his chest pounding at a furious belt.

"Our problem," Joker pressed on, the massaging of Liza's shoulders becoming more erratic, verging on violent, "Is that will mean Brucey Wayne _and_ the Batman will be black balled. Now, Bruce, who gives a shit about _him_, right? But the Batman too-"

"Then I disappear for good."

"But we can't _have_ that," Joker insisted, tone turning sharper and more threatening, "Where's your self-preservation?"

"You said it yourself, before," the Batman pulled at his cowl with a hand that shook with adrenaline. Bruce freed himself from the mask, feeling the heat of the fire that much stronger without the protection, "We're a lot alike. Maybe I have zero self-preservation too. You ought to like that," with a choked throat he turned to look Liza in the eye, "I'm sorry."

"Bruce-"

Joker's face, for the first time that Bruce could recall, turned genuinely stormy. The joke had clearly back fired.

"So which are you now?" Joker sneered, "Bruce-man? Bat-Bruce? What the fuck are you now, hm?"

"No idea," Bruce smiled back wearily, "I'm out of my depth. I give up. I resign."

Joker stared in genuine surprise for a moment before beginning to shake his head furiously. From his pocket he pulled out a knife and held it to the woman's throat.

"Bullshit. You could give this stuff up just as soon as I could. You're the Batman, cowl or not. You're _in too deep_ now," he half-sung.

Liza sobbed as the knife was placed against her throat. Bruce took in a ragged breath.

"Please don't."

Joker looked revolted with his enemy.

""Please"?" he echoed, "I did not do all this for you, for _us_, for you to crap out on me now. Where's your rage, Batman?"

"All used up."

"Bullshit. You'll never be through with that beautiful," Joker pressed firmer with the knife and began to drag, "Warped sense of justice you have in that silly head of y-"

It was all too late.

The Batman reached forward, made to grab Joker's arm: Joker was faster, yanking the knife firmly and assuredly. The blood poured. Hideous gurgles sounded from Liza's neck and mouth. Bubbling cries. They were soon drowned out by Joker's crowing laughter.

"You _subhuman bastard_," the Batman roared, throwing Joker to the floor where he stamped on the man's chest to the sound of cracked bones.

"Oh," Joker laughed, clearly pained by the movement of his ribs, "Because _you're_ such a humanitarian."

He lifted himself with obvious effort from the floor and got close to the Batman's face.

"I prefer you with the mask off," he murmured, studying the steely, dark eyed rage on the man's face, "This is you, really. Bruce Wayne was some convenient skin you stole-"

The Batman punched Joker squarely in the face, drawing blood from the man's lip. The man practically moaned with delight before lashing out with a well-aimed punch to the Batman's neck himself.

"We can do this forever now," Joker whispered as though the words were delicious to him, "No Lauras or Lilys or Leannes to stop us _now_."

The Batman kicked Joker full in the chest. The flames grew higher about them.

"Did you think we were gonna settle down?" Joker asked, only to be thrown to the floor and kicked in the back. He laughed brokenly, "Did you think we were gonna have a civil union and adopt a couple of kiddies?"

"SHUT UP."

"Did you really think _any_ of that is possible for us?" Joker rolled over, his bloody face print left behind on the floor, "Did you really even think you'd _want_ that anyway?"

The Batman dragged the man to his feet, bringing them momentarily face to face before he flung Joker away from him.

"You're not a hero-" Joker gurgled about the blood in his mouth before spitting it onto the floor.

"I know that!" the Batman snarled.

"Or I'm as much of a hero as you are," Joker corrected to a snort from the Batman, "Being a hero is just putting someone else's well-being ahead your own. You have no idea the amount of times I've saved you from the rest of the filth out there and you've not even known about it."

"Then it was selfish."

Joker half danced, half limped away from another punch, blowing a kiss from bloodied lips to the other man as he did so.

"And waging a personal war against the scum of one city just because of something that happened to you _one bad day _isn't selfish?"

When the Batman failed to answer him Joker just smiled and leaned that little bit closer, leaving himself open to kicks, punches or simply being thrown into the choking pillars of fire.

"Then we're not heroes, Batman. We're not even villains: we're just men. We're just terrible, terrible men who are too caught up in each other to stop now," he emphasised his words by grabbing and pulling the Batman towards him by his broken arm. The man swallowed a yell of pain.

"That's what you think."

"Yeah? Well I think right," Joker gestured to the empty room, empty aside from the corpse and the roaring, acrid fire, at any rate, "Where are your good men now?"

The auditorium was slowly being consumed by smoke. It made the Batman's face stand out all the crisper at this close remove, vivid and dark against the dense clouds of ash and dust. Joker watched the play of emotions across the man's face. They were subtle, certainly, but he saw them all, knowing his other half as he did. There was the hatred, the rage, the pain, the loneliness, the sadness, the despair and the longing, everything all laid out there, each emotion falling over the other for dominance.

But then, winning out over that cacophony of emotions, was something else entirely. It started out as a twitch before it grew – practically blossomed – in the Batman's eyes and at the edges of his mouth. It was the unavoidable question:

To smile, or not?

XXXXXXX

At one o'clock, two letters were opened, as instructed. Half an hour later, a door was battered down by the GCPD.

**THE END**

XXXXXXX

**Author's Note: **And so ends **(There but for the) Grace (of God, go I)**. Rather grim; apologies for that. If the ending seems vague that's not accidental: "The Killing Joke" levels of ambiguity were my aim. For the curious: yes, Jack choses the classic pop choon "Crazy" by Britney Spears for his tour-de-force. Hope you found something to enjoy!


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